Red
by KatyAniFrancy
Summary: After the kiss everything fell apart for Evan. Everything that was safe, now it is not. Except for one little thing: Catherine's face and the feeling of caressing her lips. Just after 1x05 (Saturn Returns).


**A/N**: How can someone possibly do not love the Cat/Evan chemistry that has been there on the show since the beginning? I'm seriously in love with those two and yes, I ship them more than CatCent. I mean: he's a _Brit_. That accent. That huge sexiness that he spreads everywhere with it! He's just so amazing. All right, sorry for my crazy declaration of love.  
**Title**: Red  
**Summary**: After the kiss everything fell apart for Evan. Everything that was safe, now it is not. Except for one little thing: Catherine's face and the feeling of caressing her lips.  
**Category**: Beauty And The Beast (2012)  
**Genre/s**: Romance  
**Story Type**: One-Shot  
**Pairing**: Cat/Evan  
**Rating**: K  
**Disclaimer**: I do not own Evan, Cat or every character of the show (I do, however, have a huge crush on Evan).

* * *

Evan stood there, eyes fixed to the blankness of the ceiling above his head, staring at nothing in particular. What he was feeling, an array of emotions from astonishment to love, including a sharp anger, left he tired and faint.

Almost _feeble_.

If there was one thing, though, that he sensed secure and strong at the moment, it was the exquisite, overwhelming, violent sensation of kissing Catherine's soft lips. A memory attached to his brain like it was carved in it: impossible for it to come off, to be forgotten, to be secluded into a safe, little and untouchable part of his mind where it couldn't be set free again. Her face was simply impressed in his eyes like it was the only thing he could see. Her tiny waist, which he lightly grabbed during _their_ kiss, seemed like it was still in his hands, he could nearly touch it. Still, it was all inside him: a dream, a reminiscence of the past. He had held her a few hours before, that was achingly true, but he had to leave her and now there he was, lying in his bed, unable to fall asleep. Claire was beside him, noiselessly sleeping, oblivious of the journey trough hell and back that he was living. Because it was just like a damned travel to the world's viscera, thinking of the kiss. She didn't back off. She responded him. Warmly reacted to him. It was the sweetest kiss he ever shared with a girl: more than the first one, more than the ones given during his first night of full, hot, passionate love.

It was just more, better, greater, sweeter, softer. It felt like he was created to kiss her luscious mouth, caress her juicy lips and bite her cheeky tongue. Just created for her.

He didn't feel like going crazy under the sheets with his date that night: even though she demonstrated that it was ok with her, he had his morals – no kissing two girls the same night, at least wait twelve hours – but most importantly, he didn't want to ruin the divine feeling of her gracious touch on his thin lips. He had to truly force himself to wash his teeth that evening, after the party: it was childish not wanting to leave her taste, perfectly knowing that keeping that tequila-flavoured breath wouldn't help anything but the bacteria in his mouth, because it was impressed in his head and nowhere else. He did, after all, and he was relieved that her tenderness wasn't gone from his tongue.

So, he invited Claire for a night over, but didn't even touch her. It wouldn't have felt right to hug her, or kiss her goodnight. Sure, she was great, not many girls could be seriously pretty, cunning and good-natured as she was without making a vaunt for it. And she _did_ reach the top of Mount Everest two times: she was a gem that he found within the worthless pieces of glass around him. But if she was some kind of pale sapphire, ice-cold and too perfect to be true, his Catherine was a red diamond: too precious to be kept, too flawless to be hold and too bright to look at. To him, she was red. Not like she was some kind of giant and sweet strawberry to eat, not _that_. She represented the colour in its purest form: passion, danger, love.

Passion, because with the tiniest contact she could send him to heaven: her hands on his were a blessing from God himself, every hug was a wish come true, another kiss and he could have gone in front of Lady Death without regretting anything.

The danger came along with passion. She was dangerous; a good-looking trained killer was definitely something to be scared of. More crucially, what was honestly unsafe, were the things he could do if only she asked him. If the words 'I love you' ever came out of her mouth, dedicated to him, he would instantly be turned into her personal slave: someone who could do anything to hear that poisoned and lovely promise again.

Finally turned up the 3love. Catherine was his love. Nothing less than a human goddess to worship and protect, to his eyes, someone to make love to and to bring to fancy restaurants during Valentine's Day, to love always utterly and unconditionally.

He was, as his mother always stated, a patient guy, the kind that sits and waits for what he wants, without blinking an eye. Still, this time, he had this feeling that or he could do something and finally – after years of steady chasing – claim his prey or either let her go, because she wasn't coming towards him and she would never. Since the second option was something unthinkable for him, he chose the first.

With a look to his dumped-to-be date and a mute pray in his eyes, he grabbed his telephone.

- _We need to talk tomorrow. Love you. But you know that. E._


End file.
